My 18-year-old son moved into an apartment with his childhood best friend. I thought they were prepared to handle life independently. But only two days later, Wyatt returned home in tears. He locked the door and whispered, “Mom, there’s something I need to tell you. Please don’t call Austin.” Then he gave me a document he’d discovered at Austin’s house, and what I read nearly made me collapse.

My mind scrambled to find solid ground because Wyatt and Austin Murphy had been completely attached at the hip since they were toddlers.

They first met in the sandbox behind the public library in Des Moines, throwing plastic shovels at each other before sitting down side by side to build lopsided mud ramps until sunset.

From that afternoon on, they shared every milestone, sitting together on the school bus, taking the field for Little League, and playing varsity soccer side by side.

They shared the same tall build, dark wavy hair, pale hazel eyes, and even matching dimples on their left cheeks that made absolute strangers constantly ask if they were twins.

Whenever people asked that question at pizza parlors or gymnasiums, the boys would just laugh and say they were merely brothers by choice.

I had always forced a bright smile and laughed along with them because the alternative was too terrifying to face.